Sunninghill

I wanted to write a deep poem,
soaked in fragrance and forgotten thoughts.
I wanted to dive down
and speak of the blue electric heart
of the thing,
but that’s not what it was like it all.

It was dull and white and way too clean
with that lingering smell of formaldehyde
and staved off death in favour of suffering,
as you lay there, your eyes searching
for those other worlds while I read
from an inappropriate book
about carburetors and clitorises
and the rectal temperature of hummingbirds
in a small attempt
to weave a different story.

All it achieved was that the man
lying next to you picking up stompies
thought you were a fundamentalist Christian,
my attempts to mumble
over the finer aspects of female physiology
having been somewhat successful,
because this weirdo had rocked up and read to you,
and who does that these days,
and his voice sounded far too sincere
to be reading anything but
the most deep and meaningful prophecies
of our many-storied people.

You just laughed,
while we waited for a doctor
and I grew more impatient
(to the point that I couldn’t even focus
on raunchy cowgirls and revolution)
until you had to remind me
of the silent middle and something
we had discovered about time there,
all the while smiling
about the old man’s misidentification,
because (let’s be honest)
who but a monk or a madman
would bring Tom Robbins to the blind,
only to be shown again
that it is always those with sight
who take longest to see.

TRACE

Burnt Norton

Even Cowgirls Get The Blues